


Love your stupid face

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles imagines himself as a love ‘em and leave ‘em type, if only anyone he liked would allow Stiles to love them with his hand down their pants. He’s a real romantic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love your stupid face

**Author's Note:**

> This has been hanging around on my hard drive longer than I care to admit. Doesn't take into account any of 3a, because I found it too stressful. A little ridiculous, a little cracky. Unbeta'ed because I'm trying to finish up all those 80% done fics clogging up my desktop. Feel absolutely free to point out typos.

Love your stupid face  
Derek/Stiles  
PG  
WC: 1,800+

 

0.

He goes to Lydia for help, which is mistake number one. To be fair, it might not have been so bad if he’d been upfront with her, but the utter shame of admitting to having deeply sexy feelings about Derek is too humiliating, especially if Derek does what Stiles expects, which is spectacularly reject him and/or possibly push him down the stairs to prove his point.

It’s--whatever, Derek’s hot, okay? Stiles has noticed, he’s got eyes. He thinks Derek might be kind of into him, too, if the lingering looks mean anything, but it’s hard to tell. At some point, his gaze started sidling over towards Derek and he’d think, _Yeah, alright._

It’s hardly a declaration of everlasting love, but Stiles isn’t really sure such things exist anymore.

Stiles imagines himself as a love ‘em and leave ‘em type, if only anyone he liked would allow Stiles to love them with his hand down their pants. He’s a real romantic.

 

 

1.

He’s tempted to make a crude joke about dogs and chocolate, but he’s trying to trick Derek into maybe agreeing to be his boyfriend, and it’s untrue and offensive anyway. He’s seen Scott demolish an entire box of Ho Hos as proof that being a werewolf has next to nothing in common with being a dog, other than the unfortunate smell on rainy days.

Which actually sounds like a better idea than buying Derek a box of expensive chocolates because keeping his Jeep on the road regularly sucks up all his discretionary cash and he has the sneaking suspicion that Derek’s a stress-eater, if the empty chip bags guiltily shoved to the bottom of the trash bin are any indication.

When Derek answers the door, Stiles wordlessly hands him the box of Little Debbies.

“I don’t eat this crap,” Derek says, snatching the box from Stiles.

“Sure you don’t,” Stiles lies easily. “I just thought maybe--you know, maybe you’d keep them here for me. In case I got hungry.”

“I guess,” Derek says, eyeing the box wistfully and Stiles gets the uncomfortable feeling that Derek would like to be left alone with his real love -- chocolate. Derek clears his throat meaningfully. “Is that all?”

It’s not all, but Stiles really hasn’t planned this through well, hasn’t gotten past the part in his fantasy where Derek sees how much Stiles likes him, and sweeps him off his feet, lets him do filthy and unmentionable things in bed.

As soon as the door closes, Stiles hears the sound of the box tearing, cellophane wrappers being pulled open.

“I can hear that,” Stiles says.

The sounds stop, and the ensuing silence could best be described as guilty.

 

 

2.

Scented candles, body lotion. Lydia suggested bubble bath, but he can’t imagine Derek taking bubble baths, except in his wildest and most excellent fantasies. He goes to Bath & Body Works, tries to find the most inoffensive scent he can. Pine-fantasy-something. It smells okay-ish.

The door opens before he even gets to it, Derek’s mouth turned down at the corners as he eyes the bag dangling from Stiles’ hand with what Stiles thinks is an unhealthy amount of suspicion.

“What in the hell is _that?_ ”

“Candles -- they smell. Ah, that is, they’re scented beautifully. Or so I’m told.”

“Who told you that?”

“One of the shop girls -- workers, ladies, women, men -- is that a thing? Is it insulting people that work in a store?”

“Who cares,” Derek says with a shrug.

“I do,” Stiles says, “because I have _manners_ \-- it’s worth looking into, you might enjoy having them.”

“Did you just come over to insult me?” Derek looks a little impatient and a whole lot resigned, like it’s nothing more or less than he expected, probably deserves and that’s -- Stiles’ mouth has gotten him into trouble more times than he cares to admit, but this is the first time he’s said the exact opposite of what he meant and hurt someone because of it.

“Yeah -- no, fuck, sorry,” Stile mumbles and thrusts the bag towards Derek. “For you, I guess.”

Somehow, in the space of less than three minutes, their interactions have digressed from kind of awkward and hopeful to borderline hostile, like they’re trading insults instead of gifts.

Stiles feels a little sick at how _wrong_ everything’s going. He makes like a crab and scuttles away, but not before throwing one last longing look over his shoulder.

 

 

3 + 4.

Gifts three and four are nail files and a certificate for a mani/pedi respectively, because Stiles thinks it’s a little funny, but also because Derek’s claws look like the stale month-old Fritos he found under his bed once.

“Are you -- making fun of me?” Derek asks, eying the certificates mistrustfully.

“I -- no. I mean, maybe a little, but mostly no,” Stiles finishes lamely.

A series of emotions flashes across Derek’s face too quick to settle: anger, fear, irritation, mild irritation, confusion. And anything that Derek doesn’t understand pisses him off, and then he’s back to his good old standby: anger.

Stiles reflexively grabs the certificates Derek pushes into his chest, nose just barely kissing the door that Derek slams in his face.

 

 

5.

Stiles spends the next week picking at his food, not bothering to flick spitballs at Scott, getting hit by stray balls during lacrosse that he doesn’t even attempt to catch. He unironically writes a 2,000 word essay about the history of malted beverages for his English class.

Scott joins him on the bleachers. “Talked to Lydia.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, adrift in a sea of listlessness. If this continues, he’s going to have to take up black and white photography, start writing bad poetry on the backs of all his notebooks.

“You did notice that Derek is dude, right?” Scott asks and Stiles perks up.

Stiles licks his lips, thinks about Derek’s solid chest, the cut of his hips, the stubbled jaw, the stern slant of his eyebrows -- Stiles could write sonnets about his eyebrows, honestly, he’s become so crazy about Derek. It’s sick. Somehow, while Stiles was busy trying desperately to hit that, he’s gone and fallen stupid in love with Derek’s grouchy face.

“I may have observed once or twice,” Stiles says evenly.

“You can’t -- I still think it’s weird. Like, if you want to be with guys, that’s cool, but Danny--”

“--is very happy with someone else. And it’s not -- that. It’s not experimentation. I think I actually like the weirdo.”

“Oh,” Scott says, then stays silent for a while. “What if I, uh, help you?” Scott says, eventually, looking doubtful.

It won’t help, Stiles has fucked this up beyond repair. Now instead of Derek just thinking he’s a teenaged loser, he thinks Stiles is a loser _and_ a creep. “Yeah, thanks. Whatever you’ve got, hit me. Can’t get any worse.”

As it turns out, Scott is a fan of honesty.

“Maybe you should just tell him how you feel.” Scott’s hand are curled loosely over his knees, shoulders relaxed, eyes thoughtful. He’s gotten so much smarter the past year.

“What, are you crazy?” Stiles yells and falls off the bleachers.

Scott peers down at him worriedly. “Are you okay?”

“Holy crap,” Stiles says, clutching at his chest, legs splayed out, grass in his hair, gasping. “You can’t say stuff like that to me.”

 

 

6.

The thing is -- Stiles is awful at taking advice. Lydia did not actually tell him to buy a bunch of inappropriate gifts for Derek, she told him to learn more about Derek, find out what he likes, see if they have anything in common. Scott suggested honesty. Stiles never tried any of that because he’s maybe a enormous dick who just wanted to get laid by the best looking dude in the room.

It was a shitty thing to do and they both deserve better.

It’s that thought that propels him to Derek’s, makes him bang on the door obnoxiously loud until Derek appears, hair mussed and bleary-eyed.

“Oh, God,” Derek says when he sees Stiles’ face.

“I’m sorry, okay, asshole?” Stiles says, because he absolutely sucks at apologies. “The flowers, the horrible candles, the manicure --” he trails off, suddenly awkward, scuffs the corner of his shoe against the floor, squints up at Derek. “Is this -- do you even like me? Am I wasting my time here?”

“Does it matter?” Derek says dryly.

Stiles’ shoulders hunch involuntarily. “Of course it does. I’m not -- I’m not a _complete_ asshole. If you want me to back off, I’ll back off. I know I haven’t been doing any of this right -- I got you a bunch of lame, cliché gifts, and I’ve been acting like you didn’t even matter, it’s just -- I like you,” Stiles confesses in a jumbled rush. “Like, a whole lot. And not just for your body,” Stiles says, then adds, “though that doesn’t hurt.”

Stiles pries his eyes away from the alluring way Derek’s shirt pulls taut across his shoulders, up to his beautiful eyes, to his lush mouth, trembling slightly at the corners with what Stiles hopes is amusement and not barely contained killing rage. It’s no real hardship to look at any part of Derek; Stiles thinks he could happily do it for the rest of his life.

“Look,” Derek says, scrubbing a weary hand across his face. “I--get it. Got it. I’m not that dense, okay? I just needed some time to--think.”

Stiles can’t help it, the tiny spark of hope that ignites in his chest, unfolding like a tiny pinpoint of warmth, spreading outwards.

“I’m going to need some kind of encouragement here, big guy,” Stiles says softly, voice cracking embarrassingly at the end.

“It’s -- oh, fuck, Stiles, this is complicated,’ Derek says. “I like you back, I guess.” He sounds like he’d rather be passing kidney stones than admit to liking Stiles, but Stiles has worked with less. Stiles is like a fungus, one little crack and he grows and grows and -- ew, gross, no.

He’s busy trying to think of a more apropos metaphor that he almost misses how close Derek’s standing to him, the way Derek’s hands slide up, hesitantly, not quite steady, into his hair and down to cup his jaw on either side. This is a kiss, it’s going to be a kiss, Stiles thinks hysterically. Stiles has fantasized about this a hundred times during boring classes and secretly late at night, first curled around himself, imaging Derek’s dry lips, the heat of his mouth. This is going to be a thousand times better, he can tell.

“This is bad idea,” Derek says, voice soft, hushed, before he brushes his lips against Stiles’ jaw, his cheek, his mouth.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees, eyes sliding closed and leaning into Derek’s touch, his kisses, breaths coming fast and shallow now, “but when has that ever stopped us before?”

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
